


Ten Thousand Long Stemmed Roses

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, roses aren't particularly romantic, significant lack of porn, the fluff burnses us, this is crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kink meme prompt requesting a faily Valentine's Day celebration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Thousand Long Stemmed Roses

There was, Eames thought as he let himself into Arthur's apartment, a reason he had once tried to keep his relationship with Arthur strictly sexual and not professional. The man had _no_ imagination, and while Eames could easily be satisfied with a quickie deep in a mark’s subconscious, he did prefer a little bit of elegance and creativity in a heist.

Arthur, it appeared, had given up on elegance and creativity and subtlety and, well, taste, and had instead chosen every single formulaic romance movie as his inspiration.

The living room was absolutely covered in long-stemmed red roses. The couch, the coffee table, the television, the floor... there wasn't actually room to step around them, so Eames took the direct route. They crunched under his feet, and several thorns imbedded themselves in the soles of his shoes.

He dragged himself, and several roses stuck to his feet, into the kitchen where Arthur was waiting for him, surrounded by an unholy assortment of scented candles. The roses were here too, some sitting alarmingly close to the candle flames.

"Ah, darling," he said, grinning at Arthur, who mercifully had avoided one cliché and not decided to take up cooking in the nude. "What's for dinner?"

"Oysters," Arthur answered, gesturing at a saucepot that was hidden in the gloom. "And then bananas with honey and chocolate. And after that," he let his voice trail off sexily, "me."

No imagination whatsoever, Eames mused, but that was all part of Arthur's charm. That and his arse, of course. And how incredibly flexible he was. And his seemingly limitless capacity for violence. And that--

"Oysters?" he said, blinking. "Arthur, I hate oysters."

"No," Arthur replied, "I'm the one who hates oysters, which is why it's a touching romantic gesture that I'm preparing them for you. You hate clams. I have this all written down in my notebook, don't argue!"

"Errr," said Eames, who was pretty certain that it was clams he loved and oysters he hated, but in a touching romantic gesture of his own refrained from saying anything about that. "How about we skip the food and just have sex?"

It was yet another cliché, of course, but that seemed to be the theme of the night and besides, if that smile was anything to go by, Arthur didn't mind.

"Oof," he grunted as Arthur pounced on him and drove him back toward the bedroom. They'd just made it to the bed - thankfully, the one place in the apartment free of roses and thorns - and were gleefully stripping each other naked when they smelled it.

Fragrant. Floral. _Acrid_.

"Arthur," Eames said, "is that the smell of burning roses?"

Arthur sniffed the air for a moment, then scowled. "Mother _fucker_!" he hissed. "We probably should have put the candles out first."

Eames, thankful for the semi-darkness, rolled his eyes. _"We_ probably should have used fewer roses."

"Fuck you, asshole," Arthur snapped, "I'm just thorough."

"You are a marvel of thoroughness," Eames agreed. "Now go put out the fire so we can have sex."

Arthur disappeared down the hallway without arguing, probably because Arthur never stayed angry long: each of his bursts of rage was surprisingly short-lived - there were just so many of them that they all blended together. There was, of course, also the possibility that Arthur had reasoned that arguing took up precious, precious sex time. He wasn't that even tempered.

Eames sat up and finished undressing, enjoying Arthur's melodious, if uncreative, shouts of "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE CUNTFACE TWATS!" that soon came wafting down the hallway.

"Not so thorough as to dethorn the roses, eh?" he shouted back. "Next time, shoes help!"

"I knew that," Arthur grumbled as he reappeared in the bedroom and snatched his shoes from the top of the armoire where Eames had, in what he would try to pass off as a fury of passion and not an urgent need to fuck with Arthur, tossed them.

"Somehow, I expected better of you, Arthur." It was true, Eames reflected as he flopped back onto the bed. Everything Arthur did, Arthur did perfectly. That was why Arthur never tried forging people, or coming up with the plan, or designing mazes more intricate than the ones on the back of a cereal box. "Not that I don't appreciate the effort, but this romantic cliche stuff obviously doesn't suit either of us."

Arthur reappeared in the doorway, looking more murderous than usual.

"Are you saying that my carefully planned night of romance doesn't suit you, Mister Eames?"

"Well, no. When I mentioned how we should do something romantic for Valentine's Day, I was thinking we could go rob a museum or push the limits of dreamtheft or con a powerful man out of his life savings."

"Oh."

Just one syllable, but it held so much furious meaning that Eames wanted to jump up and give Arthur a hug. He didn't, because Arthur didn't appreciate sappy nonsense like that and was about to shoot him anyway, and also because there were dozens of thorny roses strewn about and honestly, only an idiot would walk around without shoes.

"The sex part, though, that was in line with what I was thinking of."

And once again, just like that, all the rage was gone and Arthur was annoyed instead of murderous. "Eames, the cons and the theft and the sex, that's what we do every day."

Eames just smiled to himself. He had a good life: an exciting, challenging job, a lack of outstanding warrants against him, and with Arthur limping toward him, a homicidal maniac in his bed. "Thank you for pointing that out, Arthur. I had, in fact, noticed what we do every day, but it's good to know you have my back in case I miss out on something."

"And that's your idea of romance?"

"Yeah."

"The stuff we do every day? The work stuff?"

"Well, yeah. Only if you're there, though. Otherwise it's fun, but not exactly what I would call romantic.”

"Oh god, you really are a sappy twit, aren't you?"

Eames smiled as he idly stroked a hand up the inside of Arthur’s thigh. “What’s wrong with that?” he asked. “There are worse things to be.”

It was not the most original thing to say, Eames reflected, but perhaps imagination was overrated.


End file.
